


Trust Thy Doctor

by becausemycroft



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Gen, Graphic Description, Hospital, Hurt/Comfort, Johnlock - Freeform, Johnlock Fluff, Sickfic
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-07-28
Updated: 2014-10-07
Packaged: 2017-12-21 16:15:45
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 10
Words: 11,160
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/902298
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/becausemycroft/pseuds/becausemycroft
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When John takes Sherlock to the hospital with a suspected Urinary Tract Infection, Sherlock realizes that trust might not be the worst thing in the world.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Bathroom Habits

**Author's Note:**

> This is my first time posting anything of mine and it's all thanks to my beta fictioninmyheart !
> 
> This fic is based solely on my experience as someone growing up with Nephrology and Urology problems in America so I apologize for any differences between the American and British healthcare systems!
> 
> I'm sure you already know that I do not own the characters.
> 
> I hope you enjoy! (:

    John looked up from his paper to find Sherlock missing _._

_If he’s gone to the bathroom again that’s going to be his fourth time in 2 hours,_ John thought. Yes, it might be a bit unusual to track your flat-mate’s bathroom habits, but that’s one of the curses of being a doctor. You’re aware of every cough and wince from every friend, family member, or acquaintance, constantly seeing life threatening illnesses in even the most mundane of sneezes.  He heard the familiar sound of Sherlock’s toilet flushing, confirming his thoughts.  Hundreds of different diseases and infections that affect the excretory system flashed through his mind causing a bout of anxiety to surge through him. Sherlock had been using the bathroom excessively over the past few days. John had blown it off, thinking it was all the tea he had been drinking. Now it was starting to worry him. What if Sherlock _actually_ had something wrong with him? What if something happened to him? He was a doctor for God’s sake; he couldn’t ignore his friend’s health.

   _Relax,_ he thought to himself, _maybe he just has Prostatitis. Prostate swelling is common and easily treated with antibiotics._ It was true and a huge possibility; he couldn’t even imagine Sherlock having a prostate exam. He looked back down at his paper, finally calm again.

  Before he could even read the second line of the article he started, Sherlock stepped the sitting room looking exhausted. His face was pinched, making his cheeks look even more hollow than usual.  

   “You alright, mate?” John asked wearily.

  Sherlock grunted a confirmation before throwing himself back onto the couch and pulling the robe tight around himself. John almost asked the date of his last prostate exam but decided against it. It was none of his business. Sherlock could take care of himself for once.

 

    At around six am the next morning, John shuffled into his bathroom for his morning ritual. He had started taking up shifts at a clinic just south of their flat. The extra money served him well, and he was still close enough to home that he could walk without having to fork over hundreds a month for cabs.

  Just as he reached for his toothbrush, he remembered he was out of toothpaste. He struggled fruitlessly with the tube, trying to squeeze a bit out. Cursing himself for not purchasing it when he was getting low, he decided to trudge downstairs and borrow some of Sherlock’s.

   He knocked on Sherlock’s bedroom door. When he received no answer, he peaked inside.  The soft light creeping in around the blinds revealed Sherlock stretched across his bed, sound asleep. Deciding he didn’t want to wake the detective, he quietly clicked the door closed and slipped into the door next to Sherlock’s. He decided Sherlock wouldn’t mind if he borrowed it. Besides, he used John’s computer without asking all the time.

   He was only two steps into the bathroom before he was hit with the strong odor of human urine. He crinkled his nose and snatched the toothpaste, quickly retreating.

  It wasn’t until he already had his toothbrush in his mouth that he gave it any thought. He suddenly remembered Sherlock’s bathroom habits from last night. People with Prostatitis didn’t usually have a problem with odorous urine. What would it be then? Maybe Sherlock doesn’t flush his toilet throughout the night. But still, it wouldn’t smell that **_bad_** , I mean it smelled like something di— ** _Oh_**. Sherlock had a Urinary Tract Infection. Some of the most common symptoms were frequent urination, burning during and/or after urination, and strong smelling urine. Sherlock was at least two for three.

   When he went to return Sherlock’s toothpaste he looked into the toilet for curiosity’s sake.

_Cloudy Urine:_  Another common symptom of a UTI.

   He considered waking Sherlock up and asking if he had any other symptoms but decided to confront him when he got home from work. If Sherlock really had such a bad infection (as the odor suggested), he would probably be in a lot of pain and in need of a good night’s rest.

     Working through the day, he slowly forgot about Sherlock, his concentration centered on the patients. It wasn’t until lunch time when he started worrying about his flatmate again. He sat slumped over a medical textbook from his college days, rereading the paragraphs about UTIs in men, while eating a sandwich he had packed himself that morning. When he reached the paragraph explaining the high risk of kidney infection and eventual renal failure from UTIs he decided he was going to take Sherlock to see a doctor whether he agreed to it or not. Who could he take Sherlock too though? He would be a hard patient, definitely. He could always treat Sherlock himself but there was something unappealing about giving his best friend a prostate exam. Should he take him to a specialist or a general physician? He turned on the old desktop computer on his desk and spent the rest of his lunch break phoning local urology offices. 


	2. Doctor's Orders

By the time his shift was over, John was exhausted. He ended up taking a cab home; he thought he was going to pass out. Clambering up the stairs to his flat, John suddenly felt an odd butterfly sensation in his stomach. He began to feel like something was wrong but he didn’t know what… Well… That was until he opened the front door to reveal a sweaty detective curled in on himself on the couch. Sherlock was clutching at his lower abdomen and let out a soft moan as a greeting.

    “Sherlock?”

   Forgetting his exhaustion, John instantly sprung into Doctor Mode. He stripped off his jacket and dropped it beside his messenger bag on the floor. He approached Sherlock slowly, sitting on the edge of the sofa, and placed a cool hand on his forehead; slight fever, nothing too drastic. Sherlock, obviously enjoying the cold touch, leaned into John’s hand. 

   “Hey mate,” John said. “What are you grabbing your stomach for?” He ran his hand through Sherlock’s hair.

  “S’hurts,” Sherlock mumbled back.

  “Where at?” John asked. Sherlock motioned to his lower abdomen right above his groin.  “Can you lie back for me?”

    Sherlock complied, stretching himself out along the couch. John let him get comfortable before pulling his white tee up to his belly button.

  “I’m gonna push on it, let me know when it hurts, okay?”

   Sherlock nodded and lifted his arms up and rested them on the arm of the sofa. John carefully, almost hesitantly, placed both hands on Sherlock’s stomach. He pressed his fingers into the soft pale flesh just above the navel. He glanced at Sherlock’s face, looking for any signs of physical distress. His face was still pinched in pain with a glossy sheen of sweat and flushed cheeks.  His eyes, directed at John’s face, were sharp and defending. It was hard for Sherlock, John knew. Sherlock had always had trouble with physical contact; this was probably the most trust Sherlock had for a person, allowing John to touch and prod at his stomach while in such a weak state.

   John realized he was still staring with his hands hovering over Sherlock. He shook his head and looked back down, trying to hide the blush that threatened to take over his features. He slid his hands down lower on Sherlock’s belly and continued to press. John had just reached the taught skin between Sherlock’s hips when Sherlock gasped and snapped his knees forward. John jumped away before Sherlock could knee him in the chin. Sherlock lay on his side, kept his knees against his chest and looked at John with watery eyes.

    “Ow,” Sherlock said almost sarcastically. John raised his eyebrows at him. “Sorry, did I kick you? It was an accident.”

    “No, you’re fine, it’s fine,” John reassured.

     “What do you think is wrong?” Sherlock asked.

    “Have you been having any other pain?” John asked ignoring Sherlock’s question. Sherlock pulled his eyebrows together and fell silent, thinking. When Sherlock didn’t reply, John prodded him, “Specifically in your, uh, nether region?” 

   Realization flashed through Sherlock’s features and he averted his eyes. “It burns a lot when I use the toilet.”

   John knowingly scooted up next to Sherlock’s head and placed a hand on his shoulder. Without looking up Sherlock buried his face into John’s thigh. Affection mixed with sadness surged through John’s body all at once. He shoved his fingers into Sherlock’s curls.

   “I think we’re going to go to the hospital,” John said. Sherlock’s head snapped up.

   “No,” Sherlock said firmly.

    “I’m not asking you. I think you have a urinary tract infection that started in your urethra has moved to your bladder. Next stop is your kidneys.”

  “Can’t we just go to a general physician tomorrow?”

  “Tomorrow is Sunday, no one will be open. Judging by the amount of pain you’re in the infection is pretty bad. You need antibiotics now,” John said.

  “You’re a doctor. Can’t you just write me a prescription?”

   “Pills wouldn’t work at this stage of an infection, you need them intravenously. Besides, you need a urine culture done so they can decide what antibiotic the bacteria are sensitive too. I don’t have the equipment for any of that here.”

 

    Sherlock stared at John challengingly for a few more seconds before shoving his face back into John’s thigh in angry defeat. John smiled down at him and patted his shoulder before standing to retrieve his phone.

  John had packed Sherlock a small bag with some socks and things and was now loading it into the back of Lestrade’s squad car. Lestrade had willingly agreed to help out, obviously as concerned for Sherlock as John was. John slammed the boot of the car closed and jogged quickly up the stairs into the flat. Lestrade was on the sofa with Sherlock, helping him out of a sweat soaked tee into a fresh one.

  “I’ve got the bag loaded and a couple of pillows for you in the backseat,” John said to Sherlock. “You can bring your blanket if you want. Are you ready?”

  “I need to use the loo before we leave.” Sherlock started to stand up, using Lestrade as a crutch.

   John hurried over and put his arm around Sherlock’s middle, supporting him.

  “Not until we get to A&E. They’re going to need a urine sample right away.” John said.

  “I need to go now,” Sherlock protested, sounding incredibly childlike.

  “You can hold it, I know you can. You’re just trying to be difficult.”

  Sherlock smirked and looked down. “Fine, I’ll wait, but if I piss myself you’re scrubbing out the back of Lestrade’s car.”

  “Fair enough,” John laughed. “Let’s go then. Are you ready Greg?”

  “Yeah, sure. Do you need help getting him down the stairs?” Lestrade asked.

  “No, I think I—“

  “I can handle myself, thank you,” Sherlock said, shaking John’s arm off and shuffling forward a few steps.

  “I’ll go get the car started then,” Lestrade said with an apologetic smile towards John before bounding down the stairs.

  Sherlock continued moving forward slowly. He tried to stand up straight but John saw through his mask. The pain was evident in the hunch of his shoulders and the pinch of his face. He sighed to himself and slung Sherlock’s blanket over his shoulder.

  Sherlock had just reached the top of the staircase when he tripped. John lashed out reflectively and grabbed his bicep to prevent him from tumbling down the stairs.

  “You alright?” John asked, not letting go of Sherlock. He nodded and let John guide him down the stairs in silent defeat.

   By the time John had managed to stuff Sherlock and himself into the backseat of the car, Sherlock was panting and exhausted.

   Sherlock has started the trip in an upright position but was now lounging in John’s lap tiredly. John placed a hand on Sherlock’s forehead, pushing his curly fringe out of his face. He seemed much warmer now, but that was probably due to stress. Sherlock moaned quietly, and John ran his hands through the dark mass of curls.

  Lestrade glanced at them in his rear view mirror and smiled to himself. He wished he could say he couldn’t remember Sherlock without John, but he could.

   When Lestrade had first met Sherlock he was living on the streets, refusing any kind of assistance from his wealthy family. Sherlock had come to Lestrade to voice his very humble opinions on the most recent string of serial murders. Lestrade had just been granted the position of DI at the time and had taken Sherlock’s opinions into serious consideration. Everything he said had been correct, naturally. He had asked Sherlock to fill out a contact information form just in case, but it wasn’t until later in the week when Lestrade had decided to call him back that he noticed it. The only thing filled out was the space for his name while everything else was marked N/A. Realizing the significance of this, Lestrade had spent the entire night searching the streets only to find Sherlock asleep behind a park bench. He had offered him food and shelter as a sign gratitude for Sherlock’s help. He had gratefully accepted and everything had been fine, well, until Lestrade discovered Sherlock’s drug addiction that is. Images clouded with panic filled Lestrade’s head as he remembered returning home to his flat to find Sherlock overdosed on his sofa. Now, thanks to John, Sherlock was completely clean; he didn’t even smoke.

   In these past six years he had never seen Sherlock happier than when he was with John.

   Lestrade looked into his rearview mirror once again to see John bent over Sherlock, whispering comfortingly into his ear and he smiled.

 


	3. Patience

         “What’s you NI number?”

     John was filling out Sherlock’s administration papers in one of the uncomfortable waiting room benches while Sherlock continued to moan dramatically from John’s lap. Lestrade constantly switched between pacing anxiously and staring out the glass doors into the brightly lit night of the city.

    Sherlock snatched the clipboard from John’s hand and scribbled down the number before plopping back down grumpily into John’s lap. John chuckled at his behavior which only made Sherlock even more irritated.

   “Just relax,” John half-soothed, “I know you hate being patient, but there are other people who need care too.”

   “I am in pain and I need to pee, John,” Sherlock snapped loudly enough that every set of eyes in the waiting room rose up and stared at the pair. John smiled apologetically at the other patients before looking back down.

   “Just shut up would you? Close your eyes and try to get some rest in before they start stabbing you with needles,” John said, tugging the blanket back up over Sherlock’s shoulders.

   Sherlock flinched slightly at the word ‘needles’ but shut his eyes and his mouth anyway.  

  John finished up the last of the paperwork and tried to stand, but Sherlock would have none of it. He grabbed the front of John’s plaid button-up and held on with a vice tight grip, successfully holding him down, without even opening his eyes.

  “Sherlock,” John complained as he tried to unknot his fingers, “Let go.” Sherlock feigned continued to feign sleep without releasing his hold on John.   “Sherlock, I know you’re not asleep. Come on, I need to return this to the nurses,” Still no response.

  “Here, I’ve got it,” Lestrade said from the chair he had inhabited beside them, holding out his hand for the paperwork.

   As soon as the clipboard was no longer in John’s reach, Sherlock let go of John and nestled back down into his thigh.

  “Brat,” John teased and reached down to ruffle Sherlock’s hair. Sherlock swatted at John’s hand in protest and pulled the dark green blanket completely over his head. Lestrade returned and plopped himself back down into the chair with a huff.

  “Thank you,” John said to him, “But you can really go now if you want. You don’t have to stay here. It’ll be a long wait.”

  Lestrade waved him off, “No, no. I want to stay. I’m as worried about that old git as much as you are.” He teasingly poked the fleece cocoon that held the ridiculous man-child. It grunted and shuffled in response; successfully getting itself out of Lestrade’s reach. John and Lestrade both chuckled in unison and settled down for the wait.

       “Mr. Sherlock Holmes?”

    A dark skinned nurse in a pair of lilac scrubs leaned out of the administration door and looked around. John waved slightly and the nurse smiled in acknowledgement. Lestrade stretched and yawned in his chair. John shook Sherlock gently, pulling the blanket away from his face.

   “Sherlock,” John whispered.

    Sherlock’s head snapped up and looked around frantically before setting his widened eyes on John, who was smiling reassuringly at him.

   “It’s alright, mate. It’s just our turn to go back now,” John said. Sherlock considered this for a moment before attempting to stand. After several painful and unsuccessful attempts, he finally allowed Lestrade and John to help him up. It wasn’t until he was on his feet that he noticed his bladder was on the verge of explosion. The strain on his bladder only made the pain in his abdomen worse. John, noticing Sherlock’s discomfort, slung his arm over the other man’s shoulders and helped him hobble to the administration’s office with Lestrade close behind, carrying their overnight bags.

    “My name’s Erin,” The nurse smiled and closed the administration door behind them, “I’m gonna try to make this as easy as possible for you. Why don’t you go ahead and have a seat there, Mr. Holmes,” She motioned to one of the chairs next to her desk. John helped Sherlock into it and sat into the one next to him while Lestrade leaned against the wall beside the electronic scale. Erin sat in the rolling chair at her desk and pulled out Sherlock’s form, skimming through it quickly.

   “Alright, it says here you’ve been having severe pain in your lower abdomen, frequent and painful urination and a low grade fever. Is there anything else?”

   “My back,” Sherlock mumbled quietly.

   “Where at?” Erin asked and stood up.

   “The right side,” Sherlock said and looked up at her under his eyelashes.

    “Like is it in your lower back or in the middle or what?”

    “The middle.”

     “Can you rate the pain on a scale from one to ten?”

      “In between a four and a five maybe?”

     “What about the pain in your lower abdomen, what number is that?”

     “An eight.”

  Erin nodded and scribbled it onto the form in her hand. She proceeded to take Sherlock’s height, weight and other vitals. His temperature was a whooping 39 degrees, significantly higher than when they left the house.  After everything was recorded into Sherlock’s chart, the nurse guided them through several doors and a curtain into what would become Sherlock’s room for the coming hours. 


	4. Specimen

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning: This is a super awkward chapter! 
> 
> Enjoy!

        After John had forced Sherlock into a dressing gown, leaving him naked except for his boxer shorts and the thin cloth, Nurse Erin returned with a slip of paper.

     “Do you think you could give us a urine sample before you get settled?” She asked Sherlock quizzically.

     Sherlock nodded his head frantically, causing Erin to raise her eyebrows.

     “He’s been needing to go since we left the house,” John chuckled, “I made him hold it because I knew you were gonna ask for a sample.”

      Erin laughed, “Alright, let me just get you a specimen cup and I’ll be right back.”

    She returned a minute later with a plastic wrapped specimen cup and several antibiotic wipes and handed them to Sherlock.

   “The restrooms right through there,” Erin said, motioning to an unmarked door in the cramped room. “You’ll need to wipe your glans and your urethral opening. Be sure to pull back your foreskin if you still have it. Your sample should be caught midstream. Leave it on the counter when you’re done and I’ll be around to pick it up in a few minutes. Let me know if you have any trouble.” With this she departed with a smile as if she didn’t just tell a grown man how to wipe himself.

   Sherlock began to stand, using the bed as a crutch. John extended his hand offering support.

   “Do you need any—“

   “No,” Sherlock snapped without looking up.

   Sherlock hobbled past Lestrade into the restroom without meeting his eyes.

   John sunk onto the edge of the bed and looked up at Lestrade who just shrugged his shoulders and looked away. The room was silent until a grunt of pain from the toilet grabbed both of their attention. They both stared at the door for several seconds when a shaky voice on the other side of the door broke the silence.

  “John.”

  “Yes, Sherlock? Are you alright?”

  “I think I need some help.”

  John glanced at Lestrade which was returned with another shrug before approaching the door. He laid his hand on the handle.

  “I’m coming in, is that alright?” John called through the door.

   “Yes,” the shaky voice answered back.

   Before John knew it, he was staring at a very pathetic looking Sherlock. He stood hunched over the toilet with his boxer shorts around his ankles and his gown hiked up, leaning against the support bar with one hand while gently cradling his penis in the other. He looked up at John helplessly.

  “What’s the matter?” John asked as he closed the distance between him and Sherlock.

  “I can’t stand up hold the cup and aim at the same time,” Sherlock half whispered.

  “Would you like me to go ahead and take the sample?” John asked cautiously. Sherlock nodded and looked down. “Alright mate,” John said, trying to be cheerful, “Why don’t you go ahead and sit down while we’re doing this. It’ll be easier.”

  Using John and the side bar, Sherlock successfully lowered himself onto the cold porcelain.

  “Is that better?” John asked with his hand still clasped around Sherlock’s bicep.

  “Yes,” Sherlock said as he repositioned himself.

  "Have you wiped yourself yet?" 

  “No,” Sherlock mumbled, “I tried but I couldn’t keep my skin pulled back.”

    John politely ignored the deep blush that danced across Sherlock’s pale features turning them a deep red.

  “That’s okay. Hold on, I’ll be right back.” John said before he disappeared through the door before returning a minute later donning a pair of blue latex gloves. He smiled at Sherlock who was tracking him with crisp blue eyes.

   John crouched in front of Sherlock with the cup and wipes.

   “Alright, mate, can you lift up your gown and spread your legs a bit for me?”

   Sherlock hesitated before successfully exposing himself to John.

    “I’m just gonna go ahead and pull back your foreskin and wipe you down real quick, okay?”

     Sherlock nodded at him, looking incredibly like a child in his current state. John wondered if Sherlock had ever been completely naked in front of another man before. Of course John had accidently walked in on him using the bathroom at the flat before, but this was different.

    John reached up and patted Sherlock’s knee before gently taking his penis into his hand. Sherlock spread himself as wide as the boxers around his ankles would allow as John carefully retracted the delicate skin. John cooed to Sherlock softly as he started to wipe the red, irritated opening and glans.

   After disposing the used wipes in the trash bin, John tore open the plastic wrapping of the specimen cup off with his teeth, not releasing Sherlock’s foreskin. He uncapped it with one hand and pointed Sherlock’s penis into the toilet.

   “Alright, go ahead and pee now.” John assured him.

    Sherlock, who had forgotten how bad he actually needed to go, unclenched the muscles of his groin and suddenly realized where the term ‘relieve yourself’ actually came from. He closed his eyes and leaned his chin against his chest and let everything pour out.  The burning was fierce but Sherlock had never been happier to pee. He was so wrapped up in the relief he didn’t notice when John released his foreskin. He didn’t notice John wiping the outside of the cup off or the sound of the sink as he scrubbed his hands.

  When Sherlock had finished up he opened his eyes to see John leaning against the adjacent wall, waiting patiently.

 “You done?” he asked as he handed Sherlock a tissue to wipe himself off with.

  Sherlock nodded and stretched his arms out to John like a toddler wanting to be picked up. John smiled and put his hands under Sherlock’s armpits, helping him to his feet. He pulled Sherlock’s pants back up and helped him hobble through the door and back to the bed where he collapsed in exhaustion and promptly fell asleep.

 

 

 


	5. Dehydration

     Before he had fallen asleep, Sherlock could've sworn he couldn't feel any worse than he already had. Oh how wrong was he.

    When Sherlock awoke about twenty minutes later he groaned and stretched in his bed. Every muscle his body protested, his head pounded, and the pain in his back had intensified from an eight to a ten.

     Experimentally slitting his eyes open he was pleased to find the lights in his room had been switched off and all was dark except for the sliver of light that edged in around the curtains. As his eyes adjusted to the darkness the pounding in his head reduced slightly and he was suddenly able to focus more.

   Several extra blankets had been spread across him and he had three pillows instead of one. The forest green blanket John had brought from home was tucked up against his cheek where it emitted the familiar scent of Baker Street into his nostrils.

   The scent suddenly made him aware of one very small detail he had missed; Lestrade and John were nowhere to be found.

   He snapped his head up in slight panic, causing an overwhelming wave of nausea to wash over him. He groaned and shoved his face into his blanket. He rested there until he was sure he wasn't going to vomit everywhere before picking up the remote control/telephone and hitting the large red button with the nurse symbol on it. It beeped repetitively before a crackly voice on the end answered.

   "Yes, sir?" The woman asked, sounding incredibly bothered.

  "I think I'm going to vomit," Sherlock answered, matching the nurse's annoyance level. He didn't really think he was going to throw up, but he knew it would take thirty minutes for someone to respond unless it was an emergency, and there's nothing a nurse hates more than having to clean up vomit. Just as Sherlock had expected, the voice on the other end perked up drastically.

  "Hold on, Sweetie. Someone's on their way right now"

  "Thank you," Sherlock said back before tossing the controller back onto his sheets.

   Almost seconds later a strange nurse poked his head through the curtain and flipped the lights on. Sherlock grunted in protest and covered his eyes with his hands.

   "Oops, Sorry, Mr. Holmes. Is everything alright?" The nurse asked very innocently. She had incredibly pale skin, probably from living in London her whole life, with long, dark hair scrunched into a high ponytail on the back of her head, which suddenly reminded Sherlock of Molly Hooper from the morgue.

   "My head hurts, I feel like vomiting, the pain in my back has gotten worse, my whole body hurts, and my friends left when I was sleeping," Sherlock pouted.

   "I'm sorry, sweetheart. We're waiting for your urinalysis results and then we'll get you some fluids and painkillers in your system, alright?" The nurse said. She came over to Sherlock's side and placed a hand on his forehand. "You're still feeling warm, have you drank anything recently?"

   Sherlock shook his head and closed his eyes, suddenly feeling exhausted.

   "I think you may be dehydrated. It might be causing the headaches and muscle pains."

   "Obviously," Sherlock snapped, stopping the nurse in her tracks.

   "Okay.. If I got you something to drink would you drink it?" She said with a tone of defensiveness in her voice.

    "Yes," Sherlock mumbled softly, too tired to realize he was supposed to be irritated.

   "Okay," The nurse said, "Would you like just plain water, some ice chips, milk, or maybe some juice?"

   "What kinds of juice do you have?" Sherlock asked after careful consideration.

   "Um.. I think we have Grape, Apple, Cranberry, and Orange."

  "Could you maybe mix some cranberry juice with some orange juice?" Sherlock asked innocently.

"Yes of course," The nurse answered with a smile, "Would you like it with ice?"

"Yes, please."

"Alright, I'll go get you that and maybe see if I can find your friends. Okay?"

"Okay, thank you."

"No problem, sweetie." She said as she flipped out the lights and disappeared through the curtain.

  Sherlock had just shoved his face back into his blanket when the curtain swung open again. Sherlock lifted his head, expecting to find the tolerable Molly-Nurse carrying a cup of juice, but was surprised to see John and Lestrade ducking back into the room.

  "Hey, Mate. Heard you were looking for us," John said in his usual cheery tone.

  "You left me," Sherlock snapped stubbornly.

  "Oh come on now, Sherlock," Lestrade chimed in, "we were trying to talk and wanted to let you sleep. We were just down the hall."

  Sherlock continued to pout and refused to make eye contact with them. John began quizzing Sherlock on his wellbeing in fear a full blown sulk was on its way.

   When the Molly-Nurse returned with foam cup of cranberry and orange juice, Sherlock was in the middle of describing the pain in his head as if he was  just shot through the temple. The nurse pulled the tray over to Sherlock and set his cup down along with a pastel pink pitcher of ice chips before flipping the lights on again.

   Sherlock stopped talking instantly. He sniffed at the air purposefully, catching a small whiff of the sweet liquids. His mouth went dry and watered at the same time as his body realized the extent of his thirst. The nurse smiled down at him.

   "You thirsty?" She asked as she tore the paper from the straw. He stared at her expectantly.

   With the straw in the cup, she held it up to Sherlock's mouth who latched onto it like a baby piglet who was offered his mother's teat.

  "Is that good?" John asked from the other side of the bed. Sherlock flicked his eyes over to stare pointedly at John without removing his mouth from the drink, causing both Lestrade and John to chuckle at him.

  The sound of air being sucked through an empty straw filled the room as Sherlock finished the last of the liquids. The sound increased as Sherlock tried to pull the last few drops into his mouth. The nurse pulled the cup away from Sherlock who shot a grumpy look in her direction.

  "A little sugar in your system will go a long way," She smiled," If you can hold that down, you can have some more. Until then just chew on some ice chips," She turned to face John, "The doctor should come in a few minutes to review the urine sample with you, just let me know if you need anything else. My name is Sue."

  John smiled at her and looked over at Sherlock who was mid-yawn.  He crossed the room and pulled a chair over to the bedside and sat. Sherlock rolled his head to look at John.

  "What time is it?" Sherlock mumbled. John pulled the sleeve of his shirt up and looked at his watch.

  "10:36 pm," John said.

  "We've been here for an hour and thirty-nine minutes and we haven't even seen a doctor yet," Sherlock grumbled.

  John chuckled, "I know. Just be patient, take a nap. He'll be here when you wake up."

  Sherlock closed his eyes. He rested in silence for several seconds before he spoke.

  "Hey John?" he asked with his eyes still closed.

  "Yes, Sherlock?"

  "I don't feel well."

   John pursed his lips before reaching  forward and running a hand across Sherlock's warm forehead, into his curls.

  "I know, Sherlock." He replied, but Sherlock was already asleep. 


	6. The Doctor

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry it took so long for this chapter, it's been a hectic week! I hope you enjoy!

     "Do you think he's gonna be alright?"

    John looked up from the book he had brought and over at Lestrade who had spoke from the chair on the other side of Sherlock's bed.

     "I believe so. Knowing Sherlock, I think he got himself a Urinary Tract Infection in the urethra and tried to hide it. It's spread to his bladder and is slowly making its way into his kidneys, judging from his pain."

     "A kidney infection is serious business isn't it?" Lestrade asked, not entirely consoled by John's words.

     "Without proper treatment it is, but he still seems to be in the minor stages of it. His fever is low and the flank pain is still minimum. All it should take is some antibiotics and some fluids to flush him out."

      Lestrade nodded and turned his attention back to the phone in his hands. Sherlock sniffled in his sleep, nuzzling against John's elbow that rested on the bed beside him. John left his book open on his page and set it face down on his lap. He reached over and tugged the scratchy hospital blanket back over Sherlock's shoulder, before plucking the book back up.

     "He trusts you a lot you know." Lestrade stated suddenly.

     "Sorry?"

     "Sherlock. He trusts you."

     John closed his book this time and placed it on his lap, clearing his throat. "He trusts you as well as he trusts me."

     "No he doesn't. Not as much. You can just sit beside him and ruffle his hair, and he doesn't give a damn. I'm pretty sure he likes it actually, he closes his eyes and the lot. I could never do that with him. I think he just tolerates me because I give him cases. I'm pretty sure he wouldn't care if I were here or not."

     "Yes he would," John cut in, "he got upset with us both when we left, remember? He just has a hard time showing it."

     "He doesn't seem to have trouble showing it with you," Lestrade protested.

     "Because I live with him, we get to be alone all the time. Really the only time he sees you is during cases at crime scenes and that is definitely not the time to expect any kind of affection, he always has to keep his guard up in public, you know? Wouldn't want anyone to suspect he might actually be human."

     John and Lestrade both chuckled and had fell into a much more comfortable silence when a knock on the wall outside the curtain got their attention.

    A man of about fifty-two stepped in around the curtain with a smile on his face. He wore the typical long white coat with a stethoscope draped around his neck.

   "Hello, I'm Dr.Whitt," the man said with a strong Scottish accent. He extended his hand out to John who was already standing.

   "John Watson," John replied in a cool tone, "and this is my colleague, Greg Lestrade."

   "I know who you all are, me and the wife are huge fans of your blog," Dr. Whitt said with a wink.

   "Oh Cheers," John said before gesturing to a very awake Sherlock,  "Then you must know who this bugger is."

    The doctor chuckled, and Sherlock glared causing both Lestrade and John to stifle a laugh.

    "Okay, Mr. Holmes, what seems to be the problem, then?" Dr. Whitt asked with his full attention completely on Sherlock.

    "It's on the chart," he snapped back coldly.

    "I like to hear it straight from the patients mouth, in case the nurse misinterpreted you," Dr. Whitt said, seeming entirely unfazed Sherlock's harshness.

     Sherlock sighed before continuing to explain, quite dramatically, about the insufferable pain he was going through. The doctor sat at attention the whole time while scribbling notes down onto a legal pad. By the time Sherlock had finished he had worn himself out and was feeling quite chuffed. The only sound in the room for a few seconds was the sound of the doctor's ballpoint pen scratching away. When he had finished with whatever he was scribbling down. He swiped a paper from off of his clip board and looked up.

    "Well I have your urinalysis  results here. You definitely have some kind of Urinary Tract Infection. The bacteria levels in your urine are extremely high, we're very glad you came in when you did. An infection of this size can cause scarring if not properly treated. The problem I'm having is the pain in your back. I'm fearing that the infection has already started to spread to your kidneys, which could be causing all the general discomfort  you're describing. Can I have a look at your back?"

    Sherlock looked over at John uneasily before flipping over slowly with a wince. John sat back into the chair beside Sherlock's head and smiled at the him reassuringly.

    "Alright Mr. Holmes , I'm going to push on your back a bit, just let me know where it hurts, okay?" Dr.Whitt asked gently.

    "Okay," Sherlock replied hoarsely while knotting his fingers into the sheets in expectation of pain.

     Sherlock jumped when the cool fingers of the doctor's hands touched his bare skin. He started off on Sherlock's lower back and slowly made his way upward. He stopped for a second to press on Sherlock's floating ribs. When he received no reaction he slid his fingers up to the strong part of Sherlock's back right above his right kidney and pressed.

      Sherlock yelped, and hissed in a breath through his teeth, tightening his grip on the blankets. John reached forward, cupped a hand over Sherlock's fist, and squeezed gently.

      "Right there, then?" Dr. Whitt asked gently as he applied a tad bit more pressure.

     Sherlock nodded wordlessly as he released his hold on the cotton in exchange for John's hand. John froze in surprise before giving Sherlock an affectionate squeeze back.

    Dr. Whitt removed his hands from Sherlock's flesh and tugged the blanket back up. He picked up his clipboard and scratched something down.

    "The pain is definitely in your kidney. I want to go ahead and have you sent in for ultrasound before we do any IV fluids just to check for any swelling or other signs of infection in your renal area and then we'll go on from there."

    "Fine," Sherlock said before hiding is back into the pillows and releasing John's hand.  

    "Thank you," John said, smiling sheepishly at the doctor.

    "Oh it's no problem at all," He replied and stepped out of the room with a smile to the very quiet Lestrade.

      "Can't you just be nice to the doctor, he's just trying to help," John said as soon as Dr.Whitt was out of earshot.

     "He pushed on my side when it obviously hurt," Sherlock snapped harshly.

      "Hey come on, mate. There's no need to be mean to John or the nice doctor," Lestrade finally cut in.  Sherlock huffed at this and continued to sulk from under the pillows.

      John was rolling his eyes at Lestrade when the very familiar Molly-Like nurse stepped into the room, causing Sherlock to snap his head up.

     "Hello again Sherlock. Luckily, they have an opening for an ultrasound in ten minutes, transportation is on their way with a wheel chair and should be here in just a few. Is there anything I can get you until then?"

     "No, thank you," Sherlock said, soundly completely genuine.

     "Alright, sweetie. I probably won't be here when you get back, the shifts change at midnight and it's already eleven. I hope you'll get better soon, just let me know if you need anything before your ultrasound." She was just about to slip out of the room when Sherlock stopped her.

     "Wait. Can I maybe have some more juice," he asked innocently.

    "Oh of course," She smiled at him, "you're such a sweetheart. I'll be right back."

    Lestrade and John exchanged a knowing glance before staring mischievously at Sherlock.

     "What," he asked suspiciously, glancing in between the two men.

     "You like her," Lestrade stated with a smile etched across his face. Sherlock furrowed his eyebrows and looked to John who had the same grin spread across his features.

      Realizing their implications, he grumpily shoved his face back into the pillows and cover himself with the blanket.

       For some reason, John and Lestrade just couldn't stop laughing.  


	7. Ultrasound

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm sorry it's been so long since I have updated. I'm trying to get back on track, I swear!

After Sherlock had finished his juice and Lestrade bid them a sincere good luck and goodbye with a mention of his wife, John found himself sitting in yet another waiting room with a still grumpy Sherlock. 

“If we waited for ten minutes in my room then why are we still waiting here? They said they had an opening,” Sherlock said not so quietly. He was sitting stiffly in his wheelchair with his arms crossed. 

“It was just an estimation, Sherlock. We’ll be in soon. Just relax. Impatience won’t get you anywhere in a hospital, sadly.” John said in his soothing doctor’s voice. Sherlock looked down at the patterned, white linoleum floor and sighed. John stretched his hand out and placed it gently on Sherlock’s tense elbow. “It’s going to be alright, Sherlock. I promise.” 

After several minutes of comfortable quiet, a bright-eyed technician with colorful scrubs stepped through the door of the ultrasound room. She peaked at the chart in her hands quickly before giving Sherlock a warm smile.

“Hello there, I’m Johanna. I’m going to be your ultrasound tech tonight, You must be Mr.Holmes?”

Sherlock nodded sternly as she smiled even wider and went to grab the handles of his wheelchair. John gave his elbow one last gentle pat before letting him go. 

“You can come in if you would like,” the nurse offered understandingly. 

John looked down at Sherlock with raised eyebrows, “If you would like me to, I will.” 

Sherlock gave a half-hearted shrug of his shoulders that was decidedly a ‘yes’.

The lights in the ultrasound room were purposely dimmed to create a warm and comfortable environment. There was a basic hospital bed in the center of the room with the ultrasound cart next to it. Along one of the walls was several counters with cabinets, and a sink.

“Up you go, Mr. Holmes,” The nurse said, locking the wheels of his chair. Sherlock sighed indignantly before standing, just so everyone in the room could know how much of a sacrifice he was making. John kept one hand tucked up under Sherlock’s elbow as he guided him down onto the bed. Sherlock sighed once again, but this time it was shakier. 

“The sooner we can get through this, the sooner we can get some fluids and painkillers in you,” John soothed.

“I’m aware,” Sherlock snapped. He was obviously feeling vulnerable, lying on his back in nothing but a thin gown and some tight pants while a stranger hovered near, It was time for him to return to his sociopathic tendencies. 

Noticing this, and trying not to feel personally attacked, John pulled a chair beside him and sat quietly as the technician prepared the machine and Sherlock scowled from the bed at the excessively cheery nurse.

“Alright sweetheart, let’s get started.”

***

Amazingly enough, Sherlock made it through the entire ultrasound without correcting the nurse’s techniques at all. For most of the procedure, Sherlock tended to keep his eyes on the screen, in obvious fascination. But, occasionally, his eyes would flutter closed as the warm gel and the dark room served their purpose. John, who was beginning to feel the weight of the night as well, successfully made it through without once nodding off. 

When they finally returned to Sherlock’s temporary room in the A&E, Sherlock’s favorite nurse was gone, as promised, putting Sherlock in a much fouler mood than he already was. And to top it all off, Sherlock’s doctor showed up with the ultrasound results.  
Inflammation of the bladder and kidneys, no sign of any form of appendicitis. Definitely an infection of the urinary tract, if not a severe one. But something in the ultrasounds made Dr.Whitt feel a bit funny, Sherlock appeared to have some scarring on what was his right kidney. 

Within Sherlock’s medical history, not one mention of any other kidney trauma was mentioned. Not even a simple infection as a baby or anything. Dr.Whitt couldn’t decide the severity of the scarring on a simple ultrasound, but it was definitely noticeable to the properly trained eye. 

 

Dr.Whitt could think of nothing else to do besides admit Sherlock to the hospital and attempt to run a full renal scan to assess the damage.


	8. Intravenous

“Well, you can get some rest in here at least,” John said, trying to convince an increasingly irate Sherlock that being admitted wasn't as bad as he thought.

Their room was one of the nicer ones. The walls were painted a light brown instead of a sickly green, the chairs were slightly more padded and sheets on the bed lacked the questionable stains of the emergency rooms’. None of this soothed Sherlock.

“I could get even more rest at home.”

“Without the painkillers, I highly doubt that.”

Sherlock sighed loudly for the billionth time that night, “This is completely unnecessary. It’s a common infection, can’t they give the antibiotic injection they mentioned and be done with it?”

John was losing his patience quickly.

“It’s not just about the infection, Sherlock,” he snapped loud enough to make Sherlock actually pay attention, “You have severe scarring in your kidneys. You’ve obviously had infections before, you just never did anything about it.”

“John…”

“No, Sherlock... Maybe if you actually spent some time taking care of yourself instead of ignoring the pain, we wouldn’t be in this situation. But here we are. So close your eyes, and try to get some rest, because I can tell you right now that the tests they have planned for you aren’t going to be as relaxing as the ultrasound.”

Sherlock sighed and shied his eyes, causing John to reach out and place his hand on Sherlock’s knee.

“Sherlock,” John said, his usual soothing tones returning, “I know it’s hard... but you have to cooperate. It’s going to be rough and frankly… uncomfortable but I promise, if you cooperate, you’ll be okay, and I’ll be right here with you the whole time if you want me too,”

Sherlock nodded, “Okay.”

“Do want me to stay?”

“Of course,” Sherlock said, giving John a warm yet teasing smile, “I need someone to argue with the medical staff for me.”

John chuckled as Sherlock rolled over towards him onto his belly. Catching the hint, John started gently massaging the exposed flesh where the flimsy robe didn’t cover. Sherlock relaxed and nuzzled into the rough bedclothes. 

They managed to stay like that for what seemed likes hours, giving Sherlock the chance to drift into a very shallow sleep, it wasn’t much, but it was sleep. Every few minutes when a nurse would tromp by outside the door with an excessively noisy phlebotomy cart, Sherlock would lift his head drowsily and look around before flopping back down and shifting impossibly closer to John who’d continued to quietly stroke him.

John cared for Sherlock.

Of course he did, Sherlock was his best friend. He may be a rude, out of control dickhead to everyone around him, but to John, on the days they spent in the quiet of the flat, enjoying the softness and peace of each other’s company, he was a different man.

 

…………….

 

Other than the half-hearted protests when John stopped rubbing his back, Sherlock was in a much better mood by the time a nurse came in to start the full admission process, and was much more willing to cooperate.

He sat quietly on the bed with one hand curled protectively around his bad side as the nurse took his vitals and asked him questions on his medical history, which Sherlock answered in short, calm sentences. 

When they got to the IV, things went wrong. 

Between the vomiting, the constant urge to urinate, and the diarrhea, Sherlock was extremely dehydrated. His skin was pale, its elasticity gone, and his tongue was almost as white as his skin. The nurse spent a good five minutes tapping at the backs of his hands and the insides of his elbows before she found a vein on the back of his right hand that she was even vaguely sure of.

“I’m sorry in advance for any digging I have to do,” she said as she uncapped the needle, “the vein is very small, but it’s the best I can find.” After a quick rub of an alcohol pad, she pushed the tiny butterfly needle into place. Sherlock showed no signs of distress as years of recreational drug use came into play, but John squeezed Sherlock’s other hand anyway, trying to comfort himself more than anything. The nurse furrowed her eyebrows before re-angling the needle and pushing even further. This time, Sherlock flinched slightly and gave John a returning squeeze.  
“I know, I’m sorry, sweetheart,” the nurse mumbled in absent minded comfort as she felt Sherlock go tense,”just keep breathing deep for me, sugar, It’s the smallest needle we have.”

“I am not afraid of needles,” Sherlock spat through his teeth.

“Hey, relax, she’s just trying to help,” John whispered just loudly enough for the nurse to hear but quiet enough to still be soothing. Sherlock gave John’s hand another slight squeeze as the digging continued and took in a long and shaky breath through his nose. “That’s it, Sherlock, she’s almost done.” 

Just on cue, the nurse placed a gauze pad over the entrance site and sighed as she pulled the needle out entirely, “The vein blew, I didn’t get it.”

After fussing around his arms once again, getting a second opinion from both the CNO and an EMT, it was decided thirty minutes later that Sherlock might be in queue for a PICC line.

“A what?” Sherlock asked blearily, as he began to grow more uncomfortable and lethargic

“A peripherally inserted central catheter. PICC line for short,” John answered confidently as he brushed a lock of hair from Sherlock’s forehead. “They’re basically going to use a ultrasound machine to put a tiny but long tube in your arm that runs all the way up to the vessels near your heart. It’s a generally all purpose catheter, and since it’s closer to your heart, it allows medication to spread faster. Since you’ll be using an ultrasound to find the vessel, it can be much easier to place as well.I don't really think that's the best answer to this problem, but what do I know.” 

“Oh, okay,” Sherlock mumbled back. His eyes were glassy and his cheeks were red from fever. They had been in the hospital now for three and a half hours and Sherlock still hadn’t received any sort of fluids (besides a small cup of juice), painkillers or antibiotics. John was getting irritated. Sherlock needed proper medical attention now, and if he couldn’t get that here, then this obviously wasn’t the place for them.

John made sure that Sherlock was entirely asleep before stepping out the door  
and dialing Mycroft Holmes.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As I decided to continue this fic, I went back and read what I had already posted and now I hate myself and my horrible writing skills. I think my writing is slowly improving as I continue to write and I may go back and revise some of the first few chapters. Thanks for all the positive feedback you guys give me, I wish I could answer them all! I hope you enjoy Sherlock's suffering as much as I do (:


	9. Fluids

“Yes? Hello?” 

“Hey Mycroft, sorry to wake you, it’s John.” 

If there is something Mycroft Holmes has learned about his baby brother’s flatmate, it was getting calls in the middle of the night was never a good thing.

 

“Is everything alright?” 

“I’m not sure yet, Sherlock’s got a kidney infection, I’m here with him in the hospital.”

“What do you need?” Mycroft stated without further question.

“Another hospital, if at all possible, maybe something a bit more private?”

“Someone is on their way.”

********************************

As promised, an EMT with transfer papers showed up before the PICC line team was ever called, and Sherlock was loaded into the back of a discreet looking ambulance with John by his side.

“This is absolutely ridiculous.” John whispered as Sherlock was pushed through the elegant doors of the London Bridge Hospital. 

“Hmmm?” Sherlock hummed softly, only half listening as he tugged at the new and uncomfortable IV on his inside elbow. (It had taken the EMT less than a minute to raise a vein, and he had rubbed sympathetically at the purple splotches on the backs of Sherlock’s hands with a ‘you always start with the elbow, they should know that.’)

“This hospital, it’s the kind of place people talked about in med school. This is like rich people galore, they only hire specialists” John whispered back as they were pushed past a reception desk with fully bloomed orchids on the counters. “I mean, look, the receptionists are wearing suits.”

Sherlock chuckled, “I used to go here when I was a teenager for the same problems,” 

“I didn’t think they did pediatrics here,” John said, still clutching onto the rails of Sherlock’s bed as they were pushed through a glass automatic sliding door into the emergency wing.

“Money can be very persuasive.”  
***************************************

Upon their arrival, they were informed that their paperwork was already filled out and they had an observation room set up for them. All they had to do was get settled and wait for the doctor.

God bless Mycroft Holmes. 

Sherlock, who was now feeling much better, thanks to the fluids he was receiving, had much different opinions on this.

“Honestly, John. Calling my brother? We were getting perfectly fine care where we were before.” 

“I’m not arguing with you, Sherlock,” John said, thumbing through one of the health magazines they had stacked in Sherlock’s room.

He knew perfectly well from a medical standpoint, that Sherlock didn’t remember much from the previous hospital. Between the dehydration and his body’s natural self preservation instinct, he remembered nothing of the pain. But John certainly did. Sherlock’s once glassy eyes were slowly beginning to resemble the sharp, icy blue that John was used to seeing. Even Sherlock’s skin was making its way from extremely pale to just plain pale again. People always underestimate what a little bit of fluids can do, John always said. 

Sherlock snorted irritably and sharply rolled onto his side towards John with a subtle wince.

“Easy, now,” John said without looking up from his magazine, “Just rest.”

Sherlock sighed in a slightly less threatening way and nestled his face deeper into the blanket he had brought from the flat.

“There you go,” John murmured gently. He laid his magazine down on the end table, flipping the small lamp on before turning off the abrasive, medical grade overhead lighting. Sherlock lifted his head slightly to check on John’s whereabouts before burrowing back into the sheets. John went over to the bed and pulled the topsheet over Sherlock’s shoulder and sat back down.

Sherlock opened his eyes once more to give him a questioning look, only to find John completely entranced in his magazine.

****************

John didn’t lift his head again until he heard a quiet snore coming from the bed. Now that Sherlock was calm and relaxed, John finally got the chance to look around the room a bit. The front wall and door to the tiny observational room were made entirely of glass and every single motion could’ve been seen if the very polite nurses hadn’t deemed Sherlock healthy enough for the privacy curtain.The lights were controlled entirely by a touch screen monitor mounted right inside the glass door. The room seemed to be soundproof, no bustling of carts or shouting patients could be heard and they were even granted their own thermostat. This was a room for comfort. 

The calming effect seemed to had taken Sherlock hostage, as he was now cuddled warmly against his bedding. 

John smiled and settled in to wait. 

He had just started to doze when a quiet tap on the glass got his attention. He sat up immediately, calling “come in” as quietly as he could.

John relaxed only slightly when Mycroft Holmes stepped in around the curtains.

“Oh, hello Mycroft,” he said, desperately trying to flatten his bed hair down. 

“Hello, Doctor Watson. Would you like to step outside a minute?” Mycroft said, glancing at Sherlock who was amazingly still asleep.

“Oh, uh, sure.

John slipped out of the door as quietly as possible and followed Mycroft down the hall into a small waiting room which was suspiciously empty, but you could never really be sure when it came to the Holmes’. 

“My apologies, John. I didn’t mean to disturb you,” Mycroft said in his usual pompous but still somehow reassuring voice. 

“No, it’s fine. Just expected the doctor is all,” John mumbled, rubbing his eyes.

“Yes, sorry for the delay on that. Doctor Baer didn’t want to come in and waste anyone’s time before the bloodwork and urine culture results came in.”

“That’s very considerate of her, thank you. Sherlock’s just now getting some much deserved rest.”

“I do hope this hospital suits your needs. Sherlock frequented here as a child.” 

“Sherlock said he had the same problems as a teenager. I hope you called me in here to explain.” 

“Of course,” Mycroft sighed before continuing, “Sherlock got his first kidney infection when he was 2 years old. He was treated by his pediatrician and nothing more was thought of it. Until he got another infection at the age of 11. Again, he was treated without question and was told to wipe himself thoroughly after each bathroom use. About 6 months afterwards, Sherlock was experiencing a burning feeling upon using the restroom. The pediatrician gave him the proper antibiotics and ordered a Voiding cystourethrogram,”

John winced, knowing all too well what that ensued. 

“It was found that Sherlock was not emptying his bladder completely when he used the restroom and had grade three Vesicoureteral Reflux, which I’m sure you know of the results, Doctor Watson?”

“Because he doesn’t empty his bladder completely, the held in urine develops bacteria which causes the initial bladder infection. Then in return, the reflux causes the infected urine to flow back into the kidneys giving him the chronic kidney infections.”

“Exactly,” Mycroft said almost praisingly, “are you aware of the treatments for VUR?”

“Well usually the child is expected to grow out of it with the aid of antibiotics, but if he was experiencing infections in his adolescence, it would be considered chronic and they would’ve most likely used the deflux surgery where the insert gel at the base of the ureters to prevent the reflux and to encourage the growth of tissue eventually yielding long term results.”

“And that’s exactly what Sherlock went through when he was 15. The infections eventually stopped, annual VCUGs were performed to insure the success and we believed the hellish battle was over with, but here we are twenty years later, in the same hospital with the same problem.”

“Couldn’t it just be a normal infection with no strings attached? It could be just a fluke thing,” John offered.

“When Sherlock had his last Renal scan after the deflux, he had very minor scarring in the kidneys, whereas now, it is much more severe,” Mycroft looked down at John expectantly, who had taken a seat in one of the padded chairs. 

“He’s been having breakthrough infections without telling anyone.” It wasn’t a question.

Mycroft raised his eyebrows at John, before sighing, “A full circle, I believe.”

John sighed and rubbed his face, “Dammit Sherlock, I was right. I was really hoping I wasn’t right.” 

“I ask that you refrain from being upset with Sherlock. The extremely invasive procedures are what I believe to be preventing him from seeking medical care. He was never one to cooperate, I’m afraid.”

John rubbed his face once more as the image of a young Sherlock struggling against the nurses who held him down for yet another catheterization. 

“Well, he’s here now, and we’re going to get him the medical care he needs and I’m going to be with him the whole time no matter what happens,” John sounded more nervous than he should be.

“I’m sure that’s exactly what he would want to hear, John. But in order for you to be with him when he needs you the most, you need to take care of yourself first. You have about 45 minutes until the doctor comes in, I expect you eat something within that time and wash yourself up a bit, I will stay with Sherlock, in case he wakes up.”

“Are you sure?” John asked, reluctant to leave Sherlock.

“Yes. I will send someone to your flat to pick up some items for you two. Do you have anything specific?”

“Honestly our toothbrushes and some fresh pants could do us both some good,” John said before looking down at himself and realizing he was still wearing his work clothes, “and maybe something comfortable wouldn’t hurt?”

“Of course, I’ll send someone right away. But do hurry, Sherlock will not be happy with this arrangement.”

John quickly trotted from the room and chuckled as he imagined an already cranky Sherlock waking up to Mycroft’s face.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oh my goodness, the response I got from the last chapter was amazing. I may not respond to comments quickly, but I see them go by in my email and they are so encouraging! I'm warning you now, things are about to get really uncomfortable for Sherlock in the next few chapters and if you don't like seeing people in medically stressing situations please do not read!! I have a hard time writing about them (which is basically reliving them) but the procedures are key to the trust Sherlock is placing in John! Thanks again (: 
> 
> Comments and Kudos are severely appreciated.
> 
> (And I'm honestly trying to make the chapters longer without pressuring myself I swear)


	10. Medical History

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I feel like every single note I write on this fic will be about how much I don't write this fic.

fter getting himself a dry sandwich from the hospital’s cafeteria, John decided that no matter how expensive a hospital was, they would always have crap food. 

He downed a cup of bitter coffee to wash the dry bread down then found the nearest bathroom to rinse his face in. When he looked at himself in the mirror for the first time since work, he realized why Mycroft had sent him off in the first place. He looked utterly exhausted and wrung out. As he washed his face he told himself that the dark bags really brought out the blue in his eyes, and he trudged on, knowing that Sherlock was more important than his own insecurities. 

John was back in Sherlock’s holding room in less than his allotted fourty-five minutes. Sherlock, as expected, was fully awake and staring at Mycroft harshly, who was staring right back from his chair, but with a little less violence. 

Sherlock acknowledged John with a deep grunt and nod without breaking his gaze.

“Am I interrupting something?” John asked in his usual sarcastic tone when faced with the Holmes brothers’ feud. 

Mycroft looked up at this, “Nothing more than the usual, I’m afraid.”

“Have you heard anything else from this doctor of yours?” John wondered.

“She should be here in less than 5 minutes, I should suspect. It might be best if I step out.”

“You’re not going to stay when she comes?”

“John, you of all people should know that Sherlock will be more comfortable ‘opening up’ when I am not in the equation.”

Sherlock sneered from the bed at the slight mention of emotion and John sighed. 

“I guess, you’re right. Well, thanks for getting us in here so quickly, we really appreciate it.”

“Do we?” Sherlock questioned from the bed.

“Yes, we do,” John said with the speech interpretation of an eyeroll. 

“My pleasure, John.”

And with that, Mycroft Holmes was gone as quick as he came. Slipping back into his preferred method of caring which involved long distances, an endless number of contacts and a fairly ridiculous amount of money, John suspected.  
Doctor Baer showed up exactly when she was expected, looking rather disheveled.

“Hello, it’s a pleasure, sorry I’m so late, I really wasn’t expecting a call from the Holmes’ again, as you can imagine,” She poured all of this out in one run on sentence and she shook John’s hand firmly. She set her bag on the small counter next to the sink and got herself situated before placing a stern look on Sherlock.

“Sherlock Holmes, have you not been taking care of yourself?” She scolded. Sherlock, surprisingly, turned his face like a guilty child. “Tsk, Tsk, Sherlock. You were doing so good the last time I saw you, you were just a young thing then too, I suppose.” 

If there were stereotypes for pediatricians, John decided, she was it. She had a soft sense of mothering to her, while still being able to be professional. She was an older woman, who had obviously seen her way around the medical field, but didn’t let it callous her. Sherlock seemed to respect her, which was odd. John considered asking her to come to the flat and get Sherlock to clean up after himself, but he figured that would be unprofessional. 

Dr. Baer sighed and looked down at the paperwork in her hands, “Both the urine culture and the bloodwork confirm a kidney infection. And a pretty nasty one considering the pain level you’re in.”

“So you’re going to give him some antibiotics and send him on his way?” John asked.

“Not exactly, Dr.Watson, I’m hoping Mr. Mycroft has informed you of Sherlock’s previous Kidney issues? Mr.Holmes has gone lengths to keep Sherlock’s medical information off the record. ” she continued when John nodded, “When Sherlock was a baby, the same mistake was made by the ER pediatricians which prevented us from catching the reflux earlier. I don’t want to take that chance again. Reflux in adults is most commonly caused by congenital abnormalities of the urinary tract and are much harder to treat than with infants and children. I want to run some tests to check for reflux, before I send him on his way.” 

She turned to Sherlock, “I know you don’t want to hear this, my dear... but I believe we might have a VCUG in your future.”

Sherlock said nothing, he just stared at the floor and nodded. For a second, John thought he might cry.

Dr.Baer saw this too, and placed her hand gently on Sherlock’s knee. “I want to take one while you still have the infection, and if we see anything, I would like to do another after the infection has cleared.” Sherlock just nodded again, still avoiding eye contact. “I’ll do it myself, if you would like, and I’ll try to get some more experienced techs, if that would make you more comfortable. Okay?”

After a moment, Sherlock muttered an acceptance that John barely heard. But Dr. Baer obviously had. She smiled at him, “Okay, Sherlock. I’m going to get you in as soon as possible. I don’t want to prolong your healing anymore than I have to. I’ll leave you my personal mobile number in case you have any questions.” She patted his knee once more and stood, “It’s good to see you again, Sherlock. You we’re one of my favorite patients. I just wish this meeting was on better terms.” She turned to John and shook his hand once more, “It’s a pleasure to meet you, Doctor Watson. Mycroft tells me you’re taking exceptional care of him.”


End file.
